Category: Guest Week 5

Time to pack up and go, but not before thanking Mike for his generosity.

Lyle, mentioned this before, but I think it bears repeating. It takes a particularly brave soul to hand over the keys to his carefully and artfully arranged digs for such an extended period of time– especially to someone like me — one of the blogless. He had no idea what I’d do to the place and welcomed me anyway. Lovely man. I tried not to make too much of a mess of it.

I took Mike up on his offer mainly because I felt that after being entertained by him for more than a year as a reader, it was the least I could do.( I should have realised there would be plenty of first-class applicants, and that he had no real need of my services, but no matter) More importantly, I now have a much greater knowledge and appreciation of all the work and effort that goes into building such a fine home. I’m also going to make an effort to be a better reader, which means offering comment more often, even when I think it isn’t required. There are some blogs I read regularly where I’m sure I haven’t left a word. I now see the important part feedback plays in the energy of the enterprise.

I was also keenly aware of the quality of his readership–many of them top-notch bloggers in their own right. I apologise to all of you. Regular service will resume shortly. (Must you cheer that enthusiastically?)

Will I start my own blog now? I confess I’m tempted. I discovered I had much more to say than I thought I would, and that the experience was more personally rewarding than I ever imagined. But I’m going to step back from the whole idea for some time. I tend to throw myself into new pursuits only to give them short shrift once the novelty wears off. I wouldn’t want a blog, if I couldn’t make it a good one- and that includes the mechanics, about which I know next to nothing. (ask Mike, I’m sure I drove him mad)

So thank you all for your patience, and a special hug to Mike. And Mike, if you don’t see a thank you bottle of Cristal in your fridge, well, I’m not saying anyone nicked it, but….

I’m sure Mike mentioned, in his email inviting me to guest here, that he expected a minimum of 5 posts over the 7 days…

So this is my rather late attempt of doing just that. But what to write about? There have been so many good posts here this week that in an effort to try and sum up things I’ve learned, ideas that have been changed etc etc I kind of get lost…

I suppose half of the enjoyment in reading posts here, and on other blogs, is that they are written by real people, with real experiences in the real world. I know that sounds a bit daft, but in an age where kids grow up imagining spending their late twenties in a coffee house in New York, where couples wake in the morning and snog (does ANYONE do that?) and all the other ideas that are thrown at us from TV and film, it is refreshing to hear things as they really are.

It’s also refreshing to have frank discussion about sexuality. Which, let’s face it, still isn’t really the ‘British’ thing. I’ did hear a comment last week (can’t remember where – possibly on Clive Anderson’s Sunday morning show?) that the internet was ‘helping’ inform people about all sorts of sexual activities that they wouldn’t normally be aware of, and the next day my local paper had a front page story on couples arranging, via the internet, to meet for sex.

Are these truly liberating times? Are we now more accepting of our own and each others sexual needs? Who knows. All I can say is that on Friday night, I had the great pleasure of watching my wife enjoying her snog with another woman.

So, it’s has been a pleasure, and education and a bit of a giggle this week, I’ll be adding several sites to my blogroll and I’m off to try and figure out if the well groomed couple, driving a silver peugeot 206 convertible, are gay or not. Can I borrow anyone’s gaydar?

Don’t wanna bore you with the gory details (now there’s a first) but I’ve been proper poorly since Thursday. I was grovelling to Michael on the phone this morning (worse than phoning in sick to your boss, I’m telling you; he can be a stern little madam at times) and he’s agreed to let me carry on guesting for a couple more days. Praise the Lord and pass the Nurofen! More later, with luck…

After lunch, we go back to the hotel room. We run to the room with indecent haste, undress each other quickly, and make love in the shower. It’s cramped, oppressive. I like the feeling of closeness, his breath on my neck, his chest hair tickling me, the wicked look that plays across his face as he reaches down and feels stubble. He pulls me close, tells me what he wants to do, and I simply say ‘yes’. He isn’t gentle. That’s fine. It’s an intense feeling. Later, as I lie in his arms, I play with his nipple ring while he calls room service. We share a bottle of wine, and I give him a massage that becomes a caress, that becomes something more. And then I fall asleep in his arms.

This is what I have needed all week. It’s not about sex. It’s not about climax. It’s not about Cal chasing Michael through the flat, pinning him against the wall in the bedroom and making him whimper. It’s about intimacy and closeness. It’s about two people who are so close that they almost become one, but it’s about more than that. It’s about companionship, but it’s about more than that too. And this, I think, is where I’ll stop. We’re going out for dinner tonight. Little place we know, just off the Champs Elysées.

Thanks to Mike for the opportunity to do this. It’s been fun. And, sometimes, thought provoking.

Hello again all you out there in blog-land. I’ve decided to take the day off yesterday in celebration of TD’s birthday. My congratulations go out to Mike for sticking to this for so long. What a commitment.

A thought or two on promiscuity

The wonderful Gordon has caused quite a riot of ideas with this question and I would like to add my two cents. The first thing that came to my mind is the different definitions of “sex” you would get if you asked men and women how they would best describe how the experience makes them feel. I get the impression that for men, sex is more like a drug fix. It feels good, and then it’s done. For women (of at least myself), I think our bodies go into the nesting mode afterward, sending out all these funky hormones that convince us we’re “in love.” We fantasize about that man we caught and don’t want to let him go. It’s a high that’s much more than that of orgasm only. Now, I have been clinically depressed since I was thirteen years old and I have some experience with hormones and how the right or wrong ones affect not only your mood, but personality as well. I’m blabbing on…the conclusion: Nature has programmed females to stay with their man, yet has programmed men to move on without the whole emotional setback. Who knows, though, right?

My second thought on the subject was about traditionalism. Women have been brought up that you should be a good girl while men are not disencouraged to romp about. Even in my group of friends there are the gay men who are the sl*ts, the lusty drunks, the couples with “rules” etc. There’s a structure for every social situation, I suppose.

I’ve been swapping e-mails all day with Hugh, who lives in Falkirk, and helpfully points out that there are plenty of late buses back, but I’m welcome to stop over if I want. He looks a bit like Pete Sampras, and I’ve seen eight pictures of him that appear to be genuine. Some are more intimate than others. I don’t think I’ve got the guts to go and see him.

Today, I went to the St James Centre at about three o’clock. I went to the washrooms that are tucked away just behind there. I made eye contact with a number of men who were there looking for mid-afternoon entertainment, but I didn’t take it any further. I wasn’t really in the mood, and it all felt just too seedy. Plus there was nobody there worth getting to know further.

My internet friend could be my new best friend within a matter of hours. I don’t know whether I’m going to go through with it. He knows that. I’ve been honest with him. But I haven’t walked away yet. Every e-mail feels a little more like commitment, a little more we have in common, a little more like we’re already together and performing indoor acrobatics.

Thanks to gills, for reminding me that I don’t have to cheat on Hari. But, as gills says, the idea is in my head. It’s like an itchy catchy tune that I need to scratch. The more I ignore it the worse it gets.

Michael now knows that I know about him and Cal. This has made things even more awkward between us somehow. I think it’s because he now knows that I know that it was him screaming out for more the other night. Every look he gives me is laced with tones of “Martin knows what I sound like when I’m enjoying the company of a male friend”. Or maybe it’s just because he wanted me to think that he was straight, or a top, and now I know he’s neither.

I’m looking at the pictures in my e-mail box. It’s very, very tempting. And Hari doesn’t mind. Very, very tempting.

I’ve been trying to put to together a witty and insightful piece on the popularity of Halloween in Canada. It’s not going to happen, because in truth, I don’t get it.

I understand why the kids think it’s the best day of the year, next to Christmas.
With unidentifiable hordes of them knocking on doors after dark and being handed all the candy their parents never let then have any other time of the year, what’s not to love?
It’s the adult complicity in this sugar shock-fest that stumps me.
In late August the specially designed packages of miniature chocolate bars, and rockets and kisses start showing up on the shelves along with the requisite bags to put it in. A bag of 50 bars, each the size of a hotel pillow chocolate, will cost anywhere between 7 and 15 dollars. Handing out one pathetic looking little chocolate bar to a “trick or treater” will most assuredly result in you becoming the recipient of a trick (involving toilet paper and shaving cream at its most benign) or in the part of Canada where I grew up, something much more expensive.( Don’t ask me why tipping cows, and setting bridges on fire is so popular. I told you. I don’t get any of it) Figure on shelling out at least a dollar a kid. It’s not unusual to have more than 100 little darlings come knocking at your door.
But it doesn’t stop there.
Once upon a time, (cue up cranky ol’ bat music here) it was enough to buy a pumpkin, carve out a rough approximation of a scary-face, place a lighted candle inside and position the wonky jack-o-lantern in the living room window. The house was now decorated. Not anymore. Halloween decorations now rival those of Christmas on the expensively tacky scale. Don’t believe me?
Did you see how many items are sold out? Madness.
Even worse is the politically correct Halloween. Look, handing out colouring books or toothbrushes is just stupid. Either participate or don’t. Or do what I do.
Hand out treats to any child below eye level. They’re the first to arrive since they have earlier bedtimes. They are the first wave. It lasts about an hour. Then I turn off the lights and arrange to be elsewhere. Works for me. The coven is putting on a really fab do this year.